


Moments

by SkellingtonZero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute Kids, Cutesy, Drama, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Kidlock, Love, M/M, Relationship(s), Romance, Some Humor, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkellingtonZero/pseuds/SkellingtonZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John were only children when they first met but it was like it was meant to be. Together, they grew up and caused trouble, but that was only the beginning for them. Follow their story as they grow up together, wreak havoc together, solve crimes, and eventually fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock beings to their rightful owners. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> Author’s Note: I haven’t uploaded any stories (not including one shots) in a long time, possibly years so I am a little rusty on my storytelling. Hello everyone, long time no story. Anyways, please leave a review, its how I know you like the story and want it to continue.
> 
> Beta: Ancestral Romance

There are moments in life you can never forget, be them good or bad, they stick out in your mind; forever imprinting themselves onto your psyche. Life is made up of these moments, they can be small or large, a big deal or a tiny crisis in your own mind. They can be mass tragedies or private inner epiphanies; but they all are moments nonetheless and that is what makes life worth living.

These moments are linked together by a series of boring, monotonous days that hardly anyone pays attention to because we are all too busy focusing on the life changing moments. Like a baby getting ready to come into this world, or trying to make that promotion happen. Or getting that one person you think is crazy attractive to be yours.

But sometimes the moments that mean the most are the smallest of happenings that leave such an impact on your mind, you can barely begin to fathom how they happened, let alone why it means so much.

And it was a moment such as that that brought Sherlock and John together.

And it just might also be the thing to tear them apart.           

“Hey! That’s mine!” A short little boy holding a toy gun shouted as he ran up to the tree. He was small for his age with ruddy cheeks and scabs all over his body from playing. He was no older than eight, with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes.

“Then you shouldn’t leave it lying about in a public park.” The other boy responded coolly, one eyebrow raised as he examined the toy gun. He looked to be about the same age as the other boy, although slightly taller and slimmer. His hair was dark and curly and even though the London weather was warm; he wore a coat over his lightweight shirt and trousers.

“Don't tell me what to do-give it back!"

“I think not.” The taller boy eyed him, taking in his red face, sweat soaked hair and newly bruised knees. “Besides, don't you have some friends to get back to? Surely you wont miss this.”

“You can't just take what isn't yours, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. There’s this thing called asking. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“What a silly notion." The taller boy sneered. "To ask for something that was simply lying abandoned on the ground. If you didn't see me, you would have never known.”

“Who are you?”

The boy smirked, one side of his mouth curled up in amusement. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.” He spoke with such arrogance immediately the shorter boy wanted to punch him in the face.

“Right. Well hello Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’d like my gun back now, thanks.” And he held out his hand, palm up.

Sherlock frowned. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

The boy rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed. “John Watson. Gun now please.”

Sherlock smirked and tucked the toy gun into the waistband of his trousers. “Well nice to meet you John Watson. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some investigating to do.” And then he turned and walked down the path, further into the woods.

John stared disbelievingly at the retreating figure. Did that just happen? Did that strange boy really just take his toy gun? It took only a few seconds before he was running after Sherlock, little feet pounding angrily. “Sherlock! Give it back!”

“If you’re coming be quiet!” Sherlock hissed over his shoulder as he took an abrupt turn to the left, leaping over the intertwined tree trunks.

“Where are you going with my gun?”John followed, breathing hard.

“To catch a baddie of course!”

“Baddie?!”

“Bad guy, evil doer, villain, criminal. Need I say more?” Sherlock stopped and crouched down behind some shrubs, his voice a whisper. Even though he ran all the way, he hardly broke a sweat, the only giveaway being his labored breathing. "Get down John!" He hissed.

Almost immediately John dropped to the grass, his toy gun still clutched in his hands as he tried to regain his breath.

Stealthily, Sherlock peered around the shrubs, his eyes darting around. "Just as I thought." He mumbled to himself and slid back beside John. Without saying anything Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and quickly texted someone before motioning for them to leave the way they came.

At the last moment he pulled John's toy gun out and threw it, hard over the pile of shrubs. Immediately they heard someone groan then collapse.

"What was that?" John asked, his voice quivering.

Sherlock ignored him in favor of texting someone then sighed, irritated that he now had to explain what happened moments ago. "The baddie. Obviously." He rolled his eyes and huffed while tucking his mobile back into his coat pocket.

John scowled at the conceitedness and opened his mouth to say something just as Sherlock walked away, back behind the shrubs and kicked the unknown man. Coolly he walked back to John, toy gun neatly tucked back away in his trouser waistband. “Well don't just stand there. We should get back to the park before the coppers arrive.” Sherlock stated as he calmly strolled towards the path, John a few steps behind him.

“Did you just kill someone?” He asked nervously as he kept glancing over his shoulder terrified to see someone following them.

“Of course not.”

“Then what happened?!” John ran up to match Sherlock’s strides, which was difficult over the tangled tree roots.

Sherlock sighed and paused in his strides, his ears perking up at something while John went on ahead, eager to get out of the wooded area and back to the park.

“I don’t know who you are or what you just did but I want no part of it.” He muttered to himself and turned around to shout something. But what he saw made all the blood rush out of his face and his body freeze. While he made it onto the path, Sherlock was still standing in the woods and the unknown man was now holding Sherlock in a death grip.

He was a tall man, dirty with blood dripping down the side of his head. He looked a bit dazed but angry; and his hand was wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s skinny throat, slowly strangling him.

“Sherlock!” John yelped, gaining the man’s attention.

Sherlock opened one eye and stared at John in panic.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Without thinking John drew his toy gun, still loaded with toy bullets and fired at the man’s face.

It did nothing but irritate him further; he squeezed Sherlock tighter, cutting off his air supply as he stumbled towards John, intending to grab him as well.

Panicking, John threw his gun at the man’s eye. It hit spot on, forcing him to shout and drop Sherlock and cover his eye, when he pulled his hands away they were soaked in tears.

Still coughing, Sherlock grabbed John’s gun and staggered to his feet. “Run!” He croaked and started to stumble. “Run to the park!”

John didn't think twice and obeyed, his feet moving as quickly as possible with Sherlock at his heels. He didn’t even stop when he reached the park; he kept going until he was at the fountain then slumped down on the ground, leaning his back against the cool base of the fountain.

“Well that didn't go to plan.” Sherlock mumbled as he sat on the fountain base to catch his breath.

“Wha?” John looked up at him, mouth open breathing heavy, legs draw up and arms stretched out over his knees. “What plan?”

Sherlock shook his head and tossed the toy gun he picked up off of the ground down at John. “Managed to grab it.”

“Yes well...what about _him?_ ” He glanced nervously over at the path that led to the woods while his fingers nervously tapped the toy gun.

“Don’t worry about him. He will be arrested in three minutes or so.” A stranger's voice spoke from in front of them.

John looked up to see a teenage boy standing there staring at Sherlock, one hand tucked into his pant pocket. He looked like an older version of Sherlock with the same snide face and curled lip; but his hair was neater and complexion less fair. “Brother. I see you’ve made a friend.” He glanced down at John just as Sherlock stood up.

“Mycroft. So glad Mother sent you.”

“You worry her. You say you’re off to the park then text saying to send a constable.” Mycroft sighed. “And here we thought you were actually going to play with the other kids.” He glanced back at John. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten him in trouble already.”

John stood up and tucked his toy gun the waistband of his trousers like he saw Sherlock do and frowned. “What’s going on? Who is he?”

“My brother. Mycroft.” Sherlock stated with distaste.

John nodded at Mycroft and studied Sherlock. There were bruises forming on his neck from where he was strangled but his breathing was normal and he wasn't bleeding. “You alright?” He asked, surprised by his own concern.

“Well, John. You have been surprisingly helpful.” Sherlock mumbled and glanced over his shoulder at his older brother waiting.

John nodded and looked around, uncomfortable by the weird friendship he felt for this strange boy. There wasn't any reason for him to feel this way; Sherlock stole his toy gun, got him involved in some sort of vigilante justice and all around, wasn't a nice guy. And yet he still wanted to be friends with him. “It was...fun.”

At that, Sherlock looked up a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” John laughed. “It’s not every day someone steals my toys, and then runs into the woods to catch a baddie.” He grinned and looked over his shoulder, searching for his mother. He found her sitting with the other mothers chat on a bench.“I’d invite you home for tea but it looks like your brother isn’t going to say yes.”

For a moment Sherlock looked disappointed but he then nodded and glanced at Mycroft who impatiently checked his mobile phone. “Yeah. It’s alright.”

John shrugged and fiddled with his toy gun. “Same time tomorrow?”

At that Sherlock’s head snapped up, surprise evident on his face. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah...unless you’re not coming?”

“No-no, yeah same time tomorrow.”

And so, it was the beginning of the friendship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

**OOO**

  


	2. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock beings to their rightful owners. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> Beta: Ancestral Romance

Sherlock and John quickly became friends, much to the surprise of everyone around them. Almost every day, they met up and darted off one way or another only to show up a few hours later exhausted and sweaty, but laughing. 

But today was different; today Sherlock showed up to their meeting spot-near the sweets shop opposite the park- with a cold.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine, John."

"Really? Because you don't look it."

“I said I’m fine.” Sherlock hissed and turned his head, his red cheeks growing redder by the second. “We should hurry. Th-”

All of a sudden John grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back towards the sweets shop just as a cab sped by. “Jesus, Sherlock! Come on I’m taking you home. Where do you live?” He mumbled into his friend’s sweaty hair. Awkwardly, he wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s waist and tried to dig into his jacket pocket to count his pocket change.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” Sherlock struggled for a second before relenting and sagging against John’s body. “I’m not going home, John.”

“You almost fell into the street.” John muttered, adjusting his grip to accommodate Sherlock’s weight. “You’re sick Sherlock. You can’t lie to me about that.” He sighed. “Do you live far from here? I don’t have much on me and-”

“I’m not going home.”

“Sherlock-”

He sighed and cut John off. “No one’s home. Mother and Father’s gone to Italy and Mycroft’s gone off somewhere as well.”

John fell silent for a few seconds before nodding. “Oh. I see...well then I guess you’re coming home with me.” He groaned as he again shifted and grabbed Sherlock’s waist before slinging his friend's arm around his neck. “Well come on. It’s not far, just up the street and to the left.”

The walk, though usually a short one felt long with John supporting Sherlock's weight. Together they stumbled and limped along the way to John's house. It was a sensible home one would find in London; a semi detached house with a couple steps up to the front door.

Huffing, John pulled Sherlock up the few steps and knocked on the front door.

"Don't you have a key?" Sherlock mumbled; sweat dripping down the side of his fade as a shiver wracked his body.

John opened his mouth to say something just as the door opened, revealing a little girl with pigtails standing there. "John?" She asked confused.

"Hey Harry, step aside will you?" He greeted and shuffled past her, Sherlock stumbling against him.

"Who's that?" Harriet asked, staring wide eyed at Sherlock whose face was now pale and blotchy and hair soaked with sweat. "He looks ill."

"That's because he is." John mumbled and took a deep breath before reaffirming his grasp on Sherlock and taking him into the living area.

"He looks like he's going to throw up." She followed them, still starring as John gently settled Sherlock on the sofa.

"Harriet leave him alone he's-"

"Then why's he here and not home?"

Sherlock didn't even look at her but John saw the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw locked. "Just go get Mum, will you?"

Harriet stared at her older brother for a few seconds before turning and running down the hall, hollering for Mother.

“Sorry about her.” John sighed and scratched the back of his head. “She’s...well…”

Sherlock waited until Harriet had run out of the room before speaking. “Really John, this is unnecessary. I could have gone home and-”

“Sherlock don’t be daft. Look at you, you’re sick. And I can't let you go home to an empty house.”

“The house isn't empty.”

“Maids don't count.”

“There-”

“Neither do butlers-or cooks or anyone else your parents employ.” John spoke without really thinking as he looked around the sitting area for a throw or blanket. “I’m sure Mum will-here!” He pulled out a blanket from under a few pillows and smiled. “Have a seat and relax.”

Before Sherlock had settled down, much to John’s fussing, Mrs. Watson swept in with Harriet trailing behind. “Alright Mummy’s here. What’s all the fuss?” She asked, staring questionably down at Sherlock who lay sprawled out uncomfortably on the chair.

**OOO**

“Ah, is this the one you run off every day to see? About time I’ve finally met the lad-shame though that it’s because he’s ill.” John’s mother carried on, grabbing pillows and a clean blanket from the hall cupboard. She handed the load of bedding to John who stood by her side shifting from foot to foot. “And his parents are both out of town? If I recall correctly you said he has an older brother. Where is he?”

“I don't know Mum, he said-”

“Suppose I’ll just give them a ring and find out.”

“Mum!”

With a sigh she petted John’s hair. “Oh darling, I know how you feel but I have to. I wouldn't want them worrying when he’s laying here on the sofa.” Then she turned and walked down the hall. “Come on now darling, let’s get Sherlock comfortable and make him a cuppa before I ring his brother.”

Embarrassed, John trailed after his mother, head bowed. He entered the room to see his mother kneeling beside the couch helping Sherlock out of his coat. Seeing his friend uncomfortable he ran over, arms stuffed with bedding.

“There you go.” John’s mother smiled when she finally got the coat off of Sherlock. “Isn’t that better? And here’s John with some pillows.” Immediately she divested John of the bedding and began flitting around Sherlock, who sat uncomfortably quiet through it all. “Ah, isn’t that much better?” She asked and laid a cool hand on Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. “Oh dear me! You’re burning up!” She tutted. “Alright, I’ve got you settled in. Now how about you tell me your number so I can give your parents a ring?”

“They aren't home.” Sherlock muttered, not meeting her gaze.

John’s mother nodded with a sigh. “Yes...so John said.” Absently she ran her fingers through her son’s hair. “What about your older brother?”

At her words Sherlock glanced at John then sighed. “He’s gone too. I’m sorr-”

“If you say ‘to be a bother’ I will be very cross, young man. Now. There must be someone to call.”

It took Sherlock a few seconds before he slowly reached into his pant pocket and withdrew his mobile phone. “Here.” Was all he said and held it out without meeting her gaze.

“That’s a good boy.” She smiled and took the mobile out of his sweaty grasp. “I’ll go see who I can contact now. Don’t worry.” She smiled down at John and Sherlock then swept out of the room.

Neither John or Sherlock said anything, John just stood beside the couch twiddling his thumbs while Sherlock kept shifting, trying to find a comfortable position to lay in. After a few tense seconds Sherlock sighed dramatically. “There really isn’t any reason to be so uncomfortable with me being here John. This was going to happen eventually.”

Startled, John scowled, his face going red. “I’m not uncomfortable! I just-just never knew someone so thick to go out when they’re so sick!” He looked around at the cozy living room and glanced at the door.

Sherlock stared up at his friend’s red, scowling face for a few seconds. “Your Mother seems nice. And the house is lovely.”

“Don’t-”

“Really. Your Mother seems nice.” Sherlock cut him off and pulled the blanket higher up on his chest and shut his eyes.

Before John could say anything, his Mother came rushing back into the room a tray in her hands. “Okay Sherlock, don’t go to sleep just yet!” She glanced down at his closed eyes as she set the tray on the table beside the couch. “I got in contact with your Mother. She sounded worried but I reassured her that you are in very capable hands. She told me you aren't allergic to anything so you can take these cold medications.” She handed him a measuring cup filled with grape flavored cold medicine. “Now you just take this and don’t worry about a thing okay.”

Scowling, Sherlock sat up and drank the medication, grimacing at the taste.

“Yes, I know.” She sighed and paced Sherlock’s mobile on the table. “I’ve taken the liberty of copying down your parents and brothers numbers already. Oh, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve already cleared it with your Mother for you to stay here for the rest of her trip okay?” John’s Mother lightly ruffled Sherlock’s hair then pointed to the tray. “There’s some tea that John can make if you want it, and some crackers. Now it’s almost lunch so I’ll make you some soup and a light sandwich okay to eat okay?” And then she left again, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

“The makers of cold medicine really have never tasted grape.” Sherlock drawled, settling back down in the couch again.

“What?”

“Surely you’ve had the very same medication, John.” He sighed and slowly closed his eyes. “It tastes nothing like grape. Really, someone should do something about that.”

John blinked at Sherlock and suddenly wondered just how he became friends with him. He stared at Sherlock’s black curly hair peeking out of the top of the blanket he had pulled up to his nose and frowned. Since when did he start hanging out with such high-born snobs that-

“John?” Sherlock mumbled sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“It’s not polite to stare.”

**OOO**

While Sherlock slept off his cold in the living room, John decided to sit outside the front door on the steps. He was confused by his friendship with Sherlock. Before Sherlock came into his life he would have spent his days in the park playing battle and war games with all the other little boys in the neighborhood, but that no longer happened. Now John spent his summer holidays running after Sherlock all over London, venturing into places he knew would make his mother scream with terror at if she ever found out. It wasn't that he didn’t have fun helping Sherlock catch baddies, but he didn’t understand why it was so much more fun to him that playing Defend-the-Fortress with the other kids like he used to. After all, most of the time John was scared out of his wits when he was with Sherlock.

“Hey! John!”

John looked up to see Greg waving at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Hey Greg.” John greeted.

“What’s with you?” Greg asked and helped himself to the spot beside John. “Haven’t seen you in...weeks.” He frowned and glanced at John. “You aren't sick are you?” He asked suspiciously and leaned away.

“No!” John rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Then why haven’t we seen you?” Greg asked, absently kicking at loose pebbles on the steps. “The guys down at the park have been wondering when you’ll return-see they keep losing all the battles without you.” He chuckled and reached down to pick up a pebble. “They say you’ve been hanging out with some guy no one knows.”

At that John sniggered, remembering that he was always the best at playing soldier. “I’ve been hanging out with Sherlock.” He stated mildly, his mind already remembering the many battles he’s won.

“Who?”

“Sherlock...Sherlock...Holmes? Yeah...that’s his full name.”

Greg let out a low whistle. “Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? You mean Mycroft Holmes younger brother?”

John raised an eyebrow at Greg. “You know him?”

“Who doesn’t? Mycroft is a genius! Everyone knows about how he’s this crazy super genius.” He waved his hands in exaggeration. “Everyone in my level talks about it. Apparently he solved some unsolvable thing when he was my age.”

John hummed at this information and nodded. It made sense; Sherlock seemed to be a genius so of course Mycroft would be a super genius. But still, while Sherlock was an amazing guy to hang around with and John had loads of fun, Sherlock wasn't exactly best friend material. At least not from what John noticed so far.

For one Sherlock rarely ever listened to him and he never wanted to do the things John wanted to do. One time John asked him to go to the park for a bit and play war with the other kids and Sherlock just walked away and said he was going home.

John sighed and made up his mind.

He was going to start going back to the park and hanging out with the guys again. Thinking of his old friends, he should probably accept Greg’s birthday invitation formally instead of just showing up.

“So…” Greg drawled and looked around at the near empty street. “What are you doing today? Hanging out with your new friend?”

“Not much...I mean I don’t know.” He shrugged and glanced behind him at the closed door, his mind wandering to Sherlock most likely still sleeping on the couch. He knew he couldn't go out and play with his old friends today, but he was a little bored. He wasn't use to thinking about a sick friend, usually if someone fell sick the others just carried on until he got better.

“You should come with me. I’m going over to Molly’s-remember her? Amway’s she’s been kind of sick so I thought I would go over and cheer her up a bit.” Greg stood up and skipped the rock he’d been holding into the street.

John blinked at Greg and thought about what he just said. Molly was sick so he was going to go keep her company. Guilt pooled in his stomach as he thought about Sherlock lying sick on his couch, away from home and everything he knew. Yes, Sherlock was weird and kind of selfish but he was his friend. Absently John bit his inner cheek. He should go do something to make Sherlock feel better. But what?

And then it hit him like a train.

Sherlock loved playing detective. He could go to the library and check out some detective books to read to him.

With his decision made John leapt to his feet, startling Greg. “Hang on Greg! Let me get something and I’ll walk with you!” He shouted over his shoulder as he raced through the front door, trying to remember where he put his library card. After several minutes of searching he found it in one of his jacket pockets and dashed out the door.

**OOO**

John had checked out as many detective books as he could carry; everything from _Fer De Lance, Edgar Allen Poe’s Dupin Stories,_ even _The Hardy Boys._ However, that last one was more for him than it was for Sherlock. With his arms filled with books, he stumbled home after about two and a half hours, much to his Mother’s disapproval.

“John Hamish Watson!” She scolded as soon as he walked through the door. “How can you-oh my!” Immediately her tone changed when she saw him struggling with the stacks and she rushed to help him. “Library books?” She questioned, thoroughly confused. John was by no means a bad student; however he wasn’t exactly the type to head to the library out of boredom either.

“Sherlock likes detectives.” Was all he answered as he huffed his way into the living room with his pile of books, his Mother following.

At his odd answer she looked down at the books in her hands to see _The Cuckoo’s Calling_ by Robert Galbraith staring up at her. A small smile touched her lips when she realized what it was exactly her son did and planned to do. “John sweetie, Sherlock is sleeping. Why don’t you go take a bath and have lunch? By then he should be up.”

John set his pile down on the table and looked at his friend. Indeed Sherlock was fast asleep on the couch, his face half buried in a pillow.

**OOO**

By the time John bathed, changed into clean clothes and ate lunch, it was well into the afternoon. It was the hour that all the other kids who spent the better part of the day outside playing; who were wandering the streets, started to trudge home. The children would be grumbling about how they were old enough to stay out later. It was also the hour that many of the adults began to head out to the local bars and pubs, ready to drink their problems away. John sighed, belly full and warm with his food and a cup of tea. His Mother fussed about, attention divided between Harry who refused to bathe, Sherlock who was being fussy about sleeping over and John who wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch and watch television.

“Thank you for you hospitality Mrs. W-”

“Sherlock Holmes if you try one more time to go home, I can assure you that-Harriet! Do not-no! You cannot eat in the bath!” She darted off behind her daughter who raced up the stairs with a chocolate bar in her hands.

Sherlock and John sat at the kitchen island with a blanket thrown over Sherlock’s shoulders. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat and his skin was still a sickly pale color, his eyes were sunken in and hollow and his lips chapped; clearly, he was still sick. John sat beside him, idly kicking his legs.

“You do realize that you aren’t going home.” John began, playing with the edge of his napkin. “And it’s really no trouble...you being here I mean. I think Mum likes you better than me actually.” He chuckled and glanced beside him to see Sherlock taking deep breaths, most likely because he was sweating even more.

“I really do-”

“Sherlock.” John cut him off and jumped off the stool. “Stop trying to leave. You’re my friend and you're sick.” He walked over to Sherlock’s side and held out a hand to help him down. “Besides I already went to the library.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion and slowly grabbed John’s hand to slide down. “Library?”

Not ten minutes later, John and Sherlock were in John’s room with the library books scattered around them on the ground. John sat in the middle of the mess while Sherlock settled himself onto the small couch against the wall where he decided, if he was going to stay over, this is where he was going to sleep.

“Sherlock are you sure?” John’s Mother asked again for the fifth time. “We do have guest bedrooms. And you really should take one to make you more comfortable since you’re sick and all.”

“Thank you but I’m fine Mrs. Watson. I’d...John said it was alright if I stay here with him.” Sherlock curled in on himself further and clutched a blanket up to his chin, hiding his borrowed sleepwear from view.

“Of course it isn’t a problem its just...Sherlock you really should be in a proper bed.” She sighed when she realized she would get nowhere with the stubborn boy. “Fine. Alright. I’ll bring you two some water and tea.” With that said she left with a shake of her head.

John chuckled quietly at his Mother’s fusings then looked around at the scattered books. “I got these for you.”

“They are awful. Why of all the books would you take _The Hardy Boys?_ ” Sherlock eyed him from his nest on the couch.

Expecting Sherlock’s remark John simply rolled his eyes and held up Edgar Allen Poe’s _Dupin Stories._ “How about I read you this one? It sounds like something you’d like.” He scowled but opened it nevertheless.

Sherlock stared at the book clutched in John’s hands then looked up at John. He frowned for a few seconds, staring at his friend. Why was John being so nice? Why did he go all the way to the library on his own and check out all of these books? And why did he offer-no insist-to read out loud to him?

“Sherlock? No? What about this one?” John held up _Fer De Lance_ for Sherlock’s inspection.

Absently Sherlock’s eyes scanned the books until his gaze fell upon several volumes of _The Hardy Boys._ It was obvious, even to his fever addled mind that John checked out those books more for his benefit than Sherlock’s. Amused, a tired smile ghosted his cracked lips. “No. _Hardy Boys_ would be lovely, if you will.”

Confused, but more than happy to read out loud something that wasn't pretentious and actually sounded fun, John quickly grabbed the nearest copy, book one _The Hardy Boys The Tower Treasure_ and flipped open to the first page. “Chapter one, The Speed Demon. Frank and Joe Hardy clutched the grips of their motorcycles and stared in horror at the oncoming car…”

It was then, with Sherlock coiled up on his couch nestled under a mountain of blankets and pillows listening to him read out loud detective stories, did John realize that Sherlock really was his best friend. And he didn't really mind as much.

**OOO**


	3. Influences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock beings to their rightful owners. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Authors Note: Reviewing is the reason I update, so please tell me what you think.
> 
> Beta: Ancestral Romance

John and Sherlock spent a lot of time together, so much so that everyone knew them as ‘Sherlock and John’ or ‘John and Sherlock’. Wherever there was one, the other was not far behind. Their close friendship was never a problem, that is, until Sherlock’s mother insisted on enrolling John into Sherlock’s school. She had pestered and bugged John’s mother for months until she relented and signed the paperwork, claiming that it would be good for the boys.

After the first day of school, both mothers sorely regretted their decision.

“I can’t believe those fools put us in different classes.” Sherlock muttered, again for the hundredth time. The two boys stood beneath a tree, waiting for school to start.

“Well, you are in a higher level than me.” John pointed out, tugging again at his uniformed blazer. He wasnt use to the school’s heavy blazer or starchy trousers. He was use to a plain white button down and soft grey trousers his mum would iron and lay out for him. The uniform felt like it was choking him with the tie that kept getting in the way and the trousers that felt like they were made from some exotic cardboard. Essentially, he hated it.

“Yes, but they could have made an exception.” Sherlock insisted, glaring at some poor, unfortunate soul passing by. “The entire point of you coming here was for us to be together.” He carried on, checking the time on his mobile phone. “I should talk with the headmaster.”

“Yes, because that’s normal.” John sighed and hefted his band new knapsack over his shoulder. “Let’s just get started shall we?”

Together, they marched into the building along with the other kids. Whilst Sherlock maintained his forever bored expression, John gawked at everything his eyes laid upon. He stared at the arching ceiling, gaped at the large paintings and goggled at the decor. While outside looked like a castled-turned-school, the inside still maintained the castle vibe. To say he was overwhelmed would be putting it lightly.

“John.” Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him mindlessly following the crowd. Quickly, he pulled them into an alcove.

“What is it?” John asked, though his gaze wandered around, taking in the brickwork.

“You have your mobile right?”

“Course.”

“Good.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You probably need to see the Headmaster or some other imbecile.” He looked over his shoulder at the crowd still walking and chattering.

“Actually,” John fished a folded up piece of paper out from his trousers. “I’ve just got to attend homeroom. There I’ll find out everything else.” He smiled up at Sherlock.

“Let me see that.” Sherlock snatched it out of his hands and quickly scanned it. “This is on the second level.” He mused quietly to himself before handing it back to John. “Come on, I’ll show you.” With that said, he grabbed John’s hand and dragged him back into the crowd.

**OOO**

John had settled into his class easily, he had a seat beside the window, to his right sat Greg-he was happy to walk in and see a familiar face smiling at him-and in front of him sat a girl who walked like she owned the entire world. That didn’t really bother him though, she didn’t seem to acknowledge him so he just ignored her. He wasn’t sure who the guy behind him was but at least he wasn’t stuck up front right under the professors nose.

“If you had told me you were starting today I would have met you at your place.” Greg leaned over across the aisle to talk. "We could walk together."

“It’s alright, I came with Sherlock.” John shrugged and tugged at his tie.

“Oh right, the mysterious Holmes brother.” Greg rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Anyways, w-”

“Good Morning students. As you can see we have a new student.” The professor gestured to John as soon as she swept into the room. She didn't even pause on her way to the desk merely glancing up to make sure everyone was paying attention. “Why don’t you introduce yourself.” The woman asked, her tone suggesting that he should not decline as she rummaged through the drawers looking for something.

Uncomfortably, John stood up and nodded at the room of students all staring at him with a mixture of boredom and curiosity. “Uh, right. Hello. I’m John Watson.”  With that brief introduction done, he sat back down and nodded at the professor.

“Alright, now let’s get started.” And with that said, lessons began.

John followed along, taking notes, staring out the window, wondering when break would be when he suddenly felt his mobile vibrate in his pant pocket. He had gotten a text. Curious, he waited until the professor turned to write something on the board before checking his mobile.

_I hate my class._

_-SH_

Huffing, John rolled his eyes and just as he was about to tuck his mobile away, it vibrated again with yet another text message.

_The professor is an imbecile._

_-SH_

Deciding that the best course of action would be to ignore Sherlock in hopes that he would give up, John slipped his mobile back into his pocket and tried to ignore the near constant vibration, signaling more text messages.

_I’m reasonably certain the girl in front of me is allergic to her pet cat._

_-SH_

_The maths professor is cheating on her husband._

_-SH_

_With the English professor. How original._

_-SH_

_Do you think the other professors know?_

_-SH_

However, Sherlock was nothing if not persistent and after only a few minutes, John hastily retrieved his mobile typed a quick reply in hopes that it might get Sherlock to stop.

_Sherlock please! I’m in the middle of lessons here!_

_-JW_

Almost immediately Sherlock replied back.

_I know. So am I. The idiot beside me just burped. How disgusting._

_-SH_

After glancing around to make sure the professor was still turned around, John texted back.

_Sherlock please. I’m begging you. Stop texting me._

_-JW_

_But I’m bored._

_-SH_

_Try paying attention to the lesson?_

_-JW_

_But I already know all of this._

_-SH_

At that, John rolled his eyes and focused back on the professor who began to discuss the importance of learning another language.

_The girl to my left smells._

_-SH_

_Like lilac._

_-SH_

_Who wears lilac perfume to school?_

_-SH_

John huffed, glanced around, then responded.

_I swear Sherlock if you keep texting me I WILL turn off my mobile._

_-JW_

_Why? What’s so interesting that you’d rather do that than text me? I think the lilac girl is trying to get the guy in front of her’s attention._

_-SH_

_How about the fact that we are in school?_

_-JW_

_So? I’m sure you know whatever it is they are teaching anyways._

_-SH_

_The lilac girl just unbuttoned her shirt even more the second he turned around._

_-SH_

_Oh. They are dating._

_-SH_

_Do you want to go check out the docks? I heard that Scotland Yard is keeping a tab on the place. Must be something interesting._

_-SH_

_Sherlock I’m not skipping to go solve a crime._

_-JW_

_Why not? It’ll be fun._

_-SH_

“Oy mate, heads up. Professor’s turning.” The guy behind John whispered and poked him in the spine with what felt like a pencil.

Immediately, John tucked his mobile back into his pocket just as the Professor turned around to face the class. “Alright, I want you to copy the chart from the board. Got it? This is something we will refer back to so don’t skive off.” With that said, she moved out of the way and sat behind her desk and logged onto the computer.

Breathing a sigh of relief, John turned around to face the guy that saved him from trouble. “Thanks.” He grinned.

The guy in turn smiled back. “No problem. I’m Mike.”

“John.”

“I know.” He nodded at Greg across the aisle. John followed his gaze and smiled at his old friend. “He mentioned you’d be transferring here ages ago.”

At that John laughed, gaining a scowl from the professor. “Sorry.” He apologized and glanced back at Greg who smothered his laugher. “Been talking me up have you?” He whispered.

“Course.” He leaned forward and glanced around, everyone else was slowly copying the chart off of the board. “Who are you texting so much? Is it Sherlock again?”

Before he could say anything, the Professor interrupted them. “While I understand that you boys don’t want to be here and rather be talking, will you three do me the service of at least humoring me and copying the chart?”

Chuckling, all three boys nodded and started to copy the chart. John decided to just set his mobile on silent for the time being and tucked it back into his pant pocket.

**OOO**

Break came much too slow for everyone’s taste, but when it finally did roll around everyone jumped up, eager to have some time without the Professor looming around. John stood and stretched, hearing his back crack back into place with a contented sigh. While he was mildly annoyed at Sherlock’s incessant texting -he hadn’t stopped, not once. In fact John was fairly certain that he had over one hundred unread text messages now- he was enjoying himself. He had partnered with Greg and Mike to complete one of the assignments and had enjoyed himself immensely, something he wasn't too sure he would do this morning as he stared up at the ominous building.

“Hey, so do you play football?” One of the guys across the aisle asked as he counted his money.

“Yeah. I’m alright.” John grinned, shrugging off the blazer and hanging it on the back of his chair.

“Some of the guys play a game after school. You know, before cram session starts.” He gestured to a few of the guys sitting atop the desks. “There’s Anderson and Lestrade and Stanley.”

“Hey Watson, that Holmes guy is staring at you.” Someone from the front of the room called out.

Curious, John turned around to see Sherlock standing uncomfortably in the doorway. "Sherlock!" He grinned. "Come on in!"

Awkwardly, Sherlock entered the classroom with a scowl. He had forgone the jacket and loosened the tie, making him look like a tiny, stressed out banker. As soon as he entered the classroom, all eyes landed on him, making him blush under the attention. Sherlock was many things, but cool under attention he was not. He hated everyone looking at him, watching his every move. It made him feel like he was some sort of exhibit at a museum. However, he needn't endure the attention for long because within seconds, John was at his side, one arm slung around his shoulder.

“Guys, this is my best mate Sherlock. Sherlock, these are the guys.” He grinned and steered Sherlock over to the group he was sitting with.

Stiffly, Sherlock nodded at everyone.

“‘Ey! I know you! You’re that genius! You’re in the eighth levels or something!” One of the guys shouted and pointed. “What are you doing here? Slumming it?”

Before Sherlock could even open his mouth, John stepped in. “Now listen here! You can’t talk about him like that. Got it?” He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “This here is my best mate. You insult him, you insult me.”

A couple of the guys glanced at one another before laughing. “Oy calm down Watson!”

“John! Relax.” Greg hopped off one of the desks and walked up. “They’re just kidding.” He grinned at Sherlock. “Nice to meet you, I’m Greg Lestrade.”

Tensely, Sherlock nodded. “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg nodded, a smile plastered on his face. “Right, so hey, we were all going to get something to eat. Do you want to join us?” He looked at Sherlock and John.

John glanced up at Sherlock, sensing his best mates disdain for the situation and smiled apologetically at the group gathered around. “Sorry guys, I think we’re going to have to pass today. But thank you.” He smiled and shrugged. “Next time though alright?”

“Yeah,” Greg looked between the two boys for a second before nodding. “Yeah, yeah no problem.”

**OOO**

“You know, it wouldn't kill you to make friends.” John stated idly as he strolled down the hallway with Sherlock. While there were loads of students all milling about, the hallway wasn't the least bit crowded. People sat everywhere, including the large stone window sills and on the wooden benches, making the actual hallway fairly empty.  

“Hm. Yes well, I see you’ve already made friends.” His lip curled at the last word.

“Greg? I’ve known him since I was...well since before you, Sherlock.” John jogged to keep pace. “Where are we going anyways?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starved.” John looked around at the stone walls covered with tapestries and paintings. “Where’s the cafeteria?”

Casually, Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began to scroll. “What do you feel like eating? Italian? Indian?”

“Curry sounds good.” He mumbled distractedly, trying to remember the way back to his classroom.

“Indian it is then.” Sherlock grinned down at John. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Go to-”

“An Indian restaurant. It’s thirty minutes away, come on we’ve got to hail a cab.” Sherlock grabbed John’s arm then started to jog down the hall and down the stairs.

“Sherlock!” John glanced around, trying to see if any professor was watching them. “Sherlock we can’t-I really don't think this is a good idea!”

Sherlock, however, wasn't listening. He ran down the stairs and right out a side door with John right behind him. “Come on, stick to the garden and no one will see.” Sherlock said as he quickly walked through the garden towards the side, wrought iron gates.

John looked back at the school, then at Sherlock’s back. “For the love of-wait for me!” He sighed and sprinted to catch up with Sherlock. “Is the food that bad?” He asked when he caught up and matched Sherlock’s stride.

When they reached the small, side gate, Sherlock looked around before pulling out a key and opened the lock. “No. In fact it’s actually quite good.” He pushed open the gate and motioned John out first then locked it behind them. “But I’m bored. I figured lunch at a restaurant is the most entertainment I’m going to get today.”

“Seriously?” John blinked and shook his head.

“Come on, taxi!” Sherlock hailed a cab and John watched as it screeched to a halt in front of them. Immediately Sherlock opened the door and hopped in. “Come on, John.” He left the door open as he slid to the other side. “To A Taste of India.”

“That’s thirty minutes away boys.” The Cabbie watched as John climbed in and shut the door.

“I know.”

“How you boys planning on paying?” The Cabbie eyed them in the rear view mirror.

Sighing, Sherlock fished his wallet out of his pocket and waved a card. “With this. Now go.”

  **OOO**

Forty minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the Indian restaurant. “Here we are boys.” The Cabbie turned around and watched as Sherlock paid the fee. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“Uh, thanks.” John said uncomfortably as he climbed out of the cab, Sherlock right behind him. As soon as they were on the pavement, Sherlock immediately walked to the front doors, leaving John to trail after him.

As John walked in behind Sherlock, his nose was assaulted with the high aroma of Indian food. His eyes roamed the decor, taking in the gold mixed with dark shades, the various statues and wood decor.

“Table for two. Away from the crowd.” Sherlock said as John wandered up to his side and faced the hostess.

The hostess eyed them wearily and sneered. “Of course. Gentlemen.” She sniffed, her eyebrow arched as she turned on her heel and led them to a secluded table near one of the windows. “Is this good enough, gentlemen?” She asked sarcastically.

Sherlock eyed the table, the location, then nodded. He appeared to not even notice the hostess’ judgment as he took his seat and nodded to the chair opposite him. “John.”

Blushing, John took his seat and nodded at the hostess.

“Alright gentlemen, your waiter will be with you momentarily.” She handed them each a menu then sauntered away, leaving them to their own devices.

John opened the menu and scanned the prices, baulking at the prices. “Oh God...Sherlock!” He hissed.

Sherlock merely hummed in acknowledgement and continued to peruse the menu.

“I can’t afford any of this.” John whispered and glanced around, realizing just how out of his depth he really was. This was a four star Indian restaurant with four star prices, and there was no way he could even afford a cup of juice with his petty cash. The table was pure white cloth with proper silverware. There wasn't a plastic cup in sight.

“Relax John.” Sherlock said as he idly flipped another page. “It’s my treat.” He offered a smile over the top of his menu and nodded. “Now, pick what you want. I’m thinking duck. You?”

“Your treat? I can’t let you-can we-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock waved him off and closed the menu. “How about I pick then?” He raised an eyebrow and looked up just in time to see a middle aged waiter walking over.

The waiter in question was not a happy man, he walked up with a scowl on his pale face and an attitude to match. “You two are, what twelve? How are you two going to pay?” The waiter asked rudely. “I won't have leechers in here.”

Sherlock scowled and held up a gold credit card. “I believe I will be paying with this. That alright with you?” He waved it at the waiter who gawked at the sight of it then nodded.

“Right. Sorry about that. I’ll go get you two some water.”

John watched the waiter scurry off into the back for a few seconds. “And that card would be?”

“Mycroft’s idea.” He handed it to John. “I have to say, it’s one I actually like.”

John inspected the credit card in his hand. It was a gold credit card, accepted anywhere. “How can you have this?” He handed it back to Sherlock who slipped it back in his wallet.

“Mycroft.” He shrugged and nodded at the waiter who came back with a platter and a new disposition about him.

“Here we go gentlemen. Some water as well as some sweets.” He carefully placed the two glasses of water in front of them followed by a platter of Indian sweets. “Are you two ready to order? Or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Now would be fine.” Sherlock said. “We will have the curry duck with rice, a side of vegetables, and…” He looked at John.

John smiled tentatively. “That would be great, thanks.”

The waiter nodded and slapped on a fake smile. “Excellent choice. I will put in your order right away.” With that said, he left.

Neither John nor Sherlock spoke for a few minutes. They just sat there in amicable silence and people watched; they saw an old couple talking quietly at the opposite end of the room, and a young business man eating and simultaneously working on his mobile phone, and even a group of middle aged, yoga-crazy mothers gossiping among themselves near the front in a boothe.

After a few minutes, John broke the silence. “Sherlock, everything alright?” He asked as he finally settled into his seat. Before he was tense, back straight and rigid, now he slumped down into his seat and practically deflated. He was already skipping school, he might as well enjoy himself he reasoned.

“Everything's fine, John. Why do you ask?” Sherlock sipped his water and leaned casually back into his chair.

“How about the fact that you absolutely insisted we skive off school to come to an Indian restaurant? On my first day no less?”

At that, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Like you were having fun. Besides, I was thinking after this we can go check out-”

“If you say one more thing about that damn-”

“No-no, this one is in London’s theatre district. Apparently there's been a string of stalking, I was thinking we can just stop by and have a look around.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John as he sipped his water. “What do you say? Nothing too dangerous, no murder or hostage situation.”

At Sherlock’s casual tone John rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, because that’s not weird at all.” He sighed, but couldn't help the gears already turning in his head. A string of theater stalkings? Does he mean someone is stalking theaters? Or the actors? He couldn't deny that his interest was piqued.

“I don't hear a no.” Sherlock smiled slyly. “So can I take that as a yes?”

Just then, the waiter returned with their food on a large platter. “And here we are gentlemen, your rice and curry duck with a side of vegetables.” He  flashed them a fake smile before he carefully set the table. “Now, you must be warned gentlemen: it’s spicy.”

**OOO**

After eating their stomach full and paying with one swipe of Sherlock’s card, they climbed into another cab and went off to the theater district, all thoughts of school long forgotten. As they watched London fly by from the safety of the cab, Sherlock filled John in on everything he’s gathered thus far, every thing from the facts to his theories.

“So...some bloke is following secondary cast members around?” John asked as he stared out the window.

“Precisely.” Sherlock acknowledged as he furiously typed something on his phone.

Suddenly John’s phone chimed, alerting him to a text message. Absently John checked his phone, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.

_John where the hell are you?_

_-Greg_

Chuckling, John quickly texted back.

_Sorry, I skived off. Anyone notice?_

_-JW_

“Who’s that you’re so happily texting?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound bored.

However, John picked up on the odd lit to his voice and looked up. “It’s just Greg.” He reassured as soon as another text arrived.

_No shit! Yeah, people noticed. You skipped on your first day genius._

_-Greg_

At that John burst out laughing and shook his head.

_I know I know! But it’s fine, how much trouble can I be in?_

_-JW_

_I dont know. How much do you like detention?_

_-Greg_

“I forgot about that.” John muttered and sighed.

“Forgot about what?” Sherlock asked with a scowl. He wasnt exactly fond of John texting someone so much with him right there.

“Detention.” John looked over at him and shrugged. “Oh well. It’s just detention right?”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean detention? You’re not going to get detention for this.”

“What do you mean? Of  course we are, Sherlock we skipped school.”

“John. We don’t get detention.” Was all Sherlock answered.

**OOO**

They achieved absolutely nothing that day. Sherlock and John wandered around the streets, mulling around, peeking in on rehearsals but they saw nothing out of the ordinary. No suspicious activity, no one lurking in the shadows, not even a weird flower delivery. It was business as usual for each and every one of the cast members. So they decided to go back to John’s house and watch a movie.

“How about Captain America?” John suggested as they strolled down his street. He had shoved his hands into his pant pockets and hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind. At that moment he sorely regretted leaving his jacket in school.

“Not again.” Sherlock grumbled and shoved his hands into his pant pocket. “You know we could have taken a cab right.” He scowled and willed John’s front door closer. “Let’s watch a documentary on textiles again.”

At that John snorted. “How about no. Fine, no Captain America...but what about Iron Man?” He asked as they jogged up the front steps to his home and fished his keys out of his pocket.

“No more superhero or war films.” Sherlock shifted his feet as he impatiently waited for John to open the door.

As soon as the door opened and they rushed inside to get away from the cold wind, they heard the most dreadful sound of all. A mother clearing her throat. 

“Boys.” John’s Mother stood in front of the two boys, arms crossed a scowl on her face. “What, pray tell, were you two thinking?”

**OOO**


	4. Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock beings to their rightful owners. No copyright infringement intended.  
> Beta: Ancestral Romance  
> Author's Note: Reviewing is the reason I update, so please tell me what you think. Seriously, I have no idea if you guys like the story or not if you don't tell me.

Things really changed for Sherlock and John around their middle years. It was the age when all young boys changed; they started to discover themselves and fancy girls, they started bathing and dressing better and discovered the art of actually talking to girls instead of just picking on them. But things were different for Sherlock and John; it was when they discovered that they weren't just best friends, they were friends for life; because in December, just one week before Christmas, John realized he would do anything for Sherlock. Including hide a murder.

It was a well into the night when Sherlock sent John the text message, as usual, it was simple and straight to the point.

_I killed a man._

_-SH_

Was all it read on the screen. Confused and slightly worried John sat up in bed and rubbed his bleary eyes having been awoken from his sleep. Groaning, he stretched and woke himself up a bit more before checking the text message again. The message hadn't changed in the least.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock!" He hissed and glanced at the time, it read eleven o'seven at night. "This better be some sort of joke." But even as the words left his mouth he knew the truth, Sherlock never joked.

_What do you mean?_

_-JW_

John messaged back and climbed out of bed and into a pair of jeans and threw on a clean shirt. Within seconds he had a reply.

_What else could that possibly mean?_

_Come outside._

_-SH_

Worried about what happened John quickly put on his trainers, threw on a jacket and climbed out of his bedroom window. It was something he did a thousand times before regardless of the weather, but this time he dearly wished it would stop snowing. In his haste, he had forgotten a hat, scarf, and gloves, leaving his skin exposed to the elements. As soon as his feet touched the ground he zipped up his jacket all of the way and looked around the dark, scanning for his best friend.

"You could have taken the time to put on a hat." A voice remarked from his left.

Annoyed, John turned to face Sherlock to see him stepping out of the shadows. He was dressed in his usual trench coat with collar turned up and hands tucked into the pockets. "Well you did say you murdered a man, so forgive me for my haste." John scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"That is true." Sherlock stepped right up close to John, allowing the moonlight to fall on his pale face.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, seeing the red blood splattered on Sherlock's face. It was a stark contrast to his pale skin and dark curls. Nervous, John glanced around to see nothing but the white snow. "What happened?" He asked, trying to be calm but his heart beat rapidly against his chest, almost slamming into his ribcage as all manner of scenarios flashed through his mind. His best friend seriously did just kill a man, what was he suppose to do? Rationally he should run screaming into his mother's arms, but he knew that would never happen.

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and pulled a hand out of his pocket to show John the gash that was poorly wrapped in a makeshift bandage. "I killed a man, John."

"Yes! So you've said!" He hissed and glanced over his shoulder at his house, wondering if his Mother was still up. "But...but what happened?!"

Absently, Sherlock dabbed that makeshift bandage at his lip, drawing John's eyes to the cut. "He was going to rape a little girl. The constable didn't believe me so I stopped him myself."

John sighed and stomped his feet in the snow to get the blood flowing again. He knew he should probably do something at this point, like call the coppers or immediately wake his mum but this was Sherlock. His best friend and he was injured and cold and they were both obviously tired, so all he did was pull Sherlock into a rough hug.

After a few seconds, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and returned the impromptu hug. "I have to say...this isn't the reaction I was expecting." He muttered into John's hair.

At that John chuckled. "Yeah, I imagine it isn't." He pulled back and gestured to his open window. "How about a hot cuppa and some biscuits and you can explain more?"

"Sounds lovely."

**OOO**

It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to sneak over at all hours of the night and morning, and it certainly wasn't unusual for him to break into John's room completely unannounced and for John to wake up to find a sleeping Sherlock in his bed. It was a first, however, for John to try and clean up blood without waking the entire house.

When Sherlock shrugged off his coat and threw it over a chair, John realized that there was a lot more blood than he initially thought. "How much of it is yours?" He asked and gestured to Sherlock's shirt as he toed off his wet trainers.

Sherlock absently shrugged as he rummaged through John's chest of drawers for one of his many shirts that he left over. "Just my hand really." He mumbled, selecting a plain grey shirt. "Where have you put my trousers?"

"Mum must have put them in the cupboard." John pressed his ear against his closed bedroom door to listen for any footsteps. Once he was positive everyone was still asleep he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm going to go get some tea and a washcloth. Try not to wake anyone."

Sherlock merely hummed in reply and began to hunt for his sleeping trousers.

Not even ten minutes later, John crept back into his room carrying a tray filled with tea and biscuits. He walked in to find Sherlock slowly folding his bloody shirt and damp trousers. "You should probably just throw the shirt away." He offered quietly and set the tray on his desk.

"Probably." He agreed with a sigh and accepted the damp washcloth John offered. "I don't suppose there is any hope for getting all that blood out."

"Not a chance." John sighed and sat down in his desk chair, sipping his tea. "Are we going to talk about what happened or…" He let the sentence hang as he watched Sherlock clean up the dried blood on his face.

"Of course." Sherlock mumbled, scrubbing at his cheek as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. "Is it all gone?" He modeled his face for John's approval.

John shrugged. "As best as can be. There are still light splotches though." He sipped his tea and held out Sherlock's mug for him to take.

Sherlock sighed and threw the now useless washcloth in the clothes bin before accepting the tea. "Of course there are." He sat on the bed and drank the hot tea, sighing as it warmed him from the inside out. He always found John's tea to be the best, for some reason he always enjoyed it better when he made it. Within seconds he had downed it all. "It was good, thank you John." He held the empty mug out for John to take.

"Yeah, no problem." He blinked and set the empty mug back onto the tray.

"So, do you mind starting from the beginning or is this another one of those-"

"His name was Ted Rooney and I have been keeping an eye on him for months now." Sherlock jumped right in as he threw himself onto John's bed, rolling until his back hit the wall and he lay on his side facing John who still sat at the desk chair, mug in hand. "I figured out he was a pedophile ages ago. But the constables didn't care." Absently, he traced the bandage on his hand with his forefinger and then motioned for a biscuit. "He was following Sophie around for two weeks."

Nodding, John sipped his tea. "Did you tell the coppers?"

Normally at something like that Sherlock would have sneered, but this was John, his best friend so instead he just smirked and bite into the biscuit that was tossed his way. "Of course."

"And?"

"They said no evidence, no case." He sighed and rolled onto his back. "So I followed him home myself."

Downing the remainder of his tea, John grabbed the remainder of the biscuits off the tray and climbed into his bed beside Sherlock. "Here." He handed him the majority of the biscuits then stared up at the white ceiling. "What'd you see?"

"...Child porn." He whispered. "So much child porn it was disgusting." Slowly, he ate another biscuit then continued. "I also saw pictures of Sophie, ones he himself took. Obviously, she never knew of them, not once did she ever look at the camera...today he was planning on kidnapping her." He ate another biscuit. "So I followed him around and waited for the moment...At five pm, right when Sophie was walking down the street he made his move. He started following her. He followed her all the way down to the train station where she met up with some friends, to the ice cream parlor, the shops...I knew what he was waiting for...that one moment when she was going home...when she would be alone." He sighed and fell silent, no longer munching or talking.

Beside him, John shifted to stare at his friend. He took in the pale face, long nose and open eyes. If he didn't know any better he would say Sherlock didn't care, but he knew better. He saw the slight tremor of the lip, the slightly glassy eyes and the subtle change in tone. Sherlock cared so much he didn't know what to do or how to show it. So he lay there, unmoving, eating, and recounting his tale to his best friend.

"At ten o'clock he tried to kidnap her. I ran at him, punched him, then ran into his house. Luckily he chased me." He munched on another biscuit. "He was stronger than I calculated. Apparently anger gave him strength...He didn't like the fact that I head butted him when he tackled me. I ended up having to tie him to a chair even after stabbing him."

"And then?" John coaxed.

Sherlock sighed and burrowed further into the blankets. "Then I left and came here." He mumbled, closing his eyes. "Are you mad?"

John didn't know whether to laugh, cry or punch Sherlock. So he settled for an awkward three second hug before rolling onto his back. His best friend was a socially inept genius, and now most likely even a murderer. But he found he didn't really care. This was Sherlock Holmes-the weird little genius that could piss anyone off in three seconds flat-his best friend. And what Sherlock did may be wrong to some people, but not to him, because he did it for the right reasons.

He saved Sophie from a pedophile.

How could John be mad at Sherlock for that?

"Sherlock?" John whispered to the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Is Sophie okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

They lapsed back into silence again, this time John reached over to his bedside table and took off the light before settling back down. They lay in silence for awhile, just listening to each other breathe. Absently Sherlock pulled the blanket up higher to cover his shoulder, dragging it up over John as well. After a few minutes John sighed, wiggled his way further into bed and under the blankets then rolled over onto his side, his back to Sherlock.

"You should probably text Mycroft." John mumbled, his face buried in his pillow.

Beside him Sherlock shifted and pulled out his mobile. "Yeah." He quickly typed out a message, his fingers a blur across the screen.

_I killed a rapist. His name was Ted Rooney you'll find the body at his house along with the evidence that he is a pedophile._

_-SH_

He sent the message then reached over John to slide his mobile onto the bedside table. As soon as he drew his arm back and settled under the blanket, Mycroft texted back. But Sherlock didn't bother to read it he was already comfortable and drifting off to sleep curled on his side, with his back to John and face buried in a pillow.

_Brother Mine, can you not get in trouble for one day? Fine. I've informed the necessary people. I believe you are at John Watson's? Very well. I will tell Mother to stop fretting._

_-Mycroft Holmes_

**OOO**

"Sherlock snuck over again?" John's Mother asked as she flew about the kitchen making breakfast the following morning. Expertly, she laid out two dishes and doled out two sausages each along with a healthy portion of egg and toast.

Still sleepy, John yawned and nodded as he climbed up onto the stool and laid his cheek against the cool counter top. "Yeah. He came over last night."

Absently she tutted but smiled when she turned her back. It was common, after all, for her to wake John and find both John and Sherlock fast asleep. More often than not she would find her self serving the two sleepy eyed boys breakfast and forcing them to drink their milk. It became a routine over the years and she expected to find Sherlock under her roof at least four times a week.

"Good Morning Mrs. Watson." Sherlock greeted as he entered the kitchen and took his seat beside John.

"Morning,Dear." John's Mother smiled warmly at him as she slid the two dishes in front of them. "Eat up you two. Harriet is still sleeping so let's keep the noise to a minimum, okay?"

"Yes, Mum." John said as he began to dig into his breakfast. Beside him Sherlock glanced as his friend, smiled to himself, then began to eat. The two boys ate in companionable silence, occasionally glancing at one another and offering each other a supportive smile. Before they came down they agreed not to tell John's Mother about the incident and even went as far as to hide Sherlock's bloody clothes in a brown bag.

But the amicable silence was not meant to last because not ten minutes into breakfast, there was knocking on the front door. Curious as to who would be so rude as to come calling at the early hour, Mrs. Watson frowned but scuttled off to open the door. "Finish your breakfast boys." She called over her shoulder.

"Bloody hell...you don't think..." John let the sentence hang as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock's face.

He was completely closed off, his face a mask of impenetrable emotion. "Keep calm, John." Sherlock said quietly and laid a comforting hand on John's arm, through his mask remained in place.

Before John could say anything, his mother came rushing back in with Scotland Yard at her heels. "John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes what have you boys done?! What is the meaning of all this?!" She shouted, hands on hips, murder in her eyes. Behind her several of Scotland Yard's men stood staring down at the two boys.

"Right." One of them cleared his throat and stepped a forward. "Which one of you lads is Sherlock Holmes?"

Suddenly a tall, imposing young man emerged from the hallway wearing a dark brown suit. "Brother mine, hate to interrupt but I'm afraid you need to be questioned." Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, one hand casually shoved in his pant pocket the other held his mobile phone.

"Mycroft." Was all Sherlock uttered before he slid off the stool and walked up to his brother, a scowl on his pale face.

"Now Sherlock, don't look at me like that. You did," His eyes cut over to Mrs. Watson, caught between fretting over her son and giving him a stern telling to. Without a doubt, poor John would be grounded for a long time. "Find yourself in trouble. More than usual I'm afraid. They are only following protocol." He sighed, clearly tired from the venture of fetching his little brother. "Let's be on the way now, Mother is worried-oh and Mrs. Watson, do go easy on John. This time it wasn't his fault." He smiled at John's Mother then turned on his heel and walked out the door, Scotland Yard following suit with Sherlock between them.

The kitchen was in silence for all of two seconds after everyone left before John's Mother lost it. Enraged, frustrated, and confused she wailed on him, shouting with tears in her eyes. "John Hamish Watson! What in the good Lord's name was that?!" She gestured at the hallway then ran her fingers through her hair. "Bloody Scotland Yard? Why? What have you two done?!"

John opened his mouth then shut it. For once this mess had nothing to do with him, it was all Sherlock but he couldn't bring himself to say that, to sell his best mate out, throw him under the bus; he couldn't do it. So he just sat on the stool and hung his head while his Mother ranted and raved and grounded him till the end of time.

**OOO**

John didn't hear from Sherlock until the following night, it was around midnight when his mobile blinked to life. Ever since the incident at breakfast the previous morning John's Mother had him under lockdown, no going outside, no television or internet, he was lucky to have hidden away his mobile before she caught sight of it and took that away too. Bored out of his skull, John was laying on his bed in the dark staring up at the ceiling when his mobile winked at him from his bedside table. A burst of worry coursed through him before he picked it up and read the message.

_John? Are you awake?_

_-SH_

John gnawed on his lower lip for a second before quickly typing back a reply.

_Yeah, I'm awake. You okay?_

_-JW_

Seconds later, Sherlock replied.

_I'm fine. It's all been taken care of. How are you holding up? Are you in trouble?_

_-SH_

At that, John chuckled bitterly as his fingers skipped across the screen.

_Yeah. I'm grounded. Where are you?_

_-JW_

_At home. Mother is a bit upset and Mycroft is cross but everything is fine. Why are you grounded? You didn't do anything._

_-SH_

_Sherlock, Scotland Yard was in the kitchen. Of course I'm grounded._

_-JW_

_I suppose that's true. Does that mean I can't come over tonight?_

_-SH_

Before he responded, John thought for a minute. It's been two whole days since he's been outside and his mother was slowly driving him crazy. He couldn't take much more of lockdown without losing his mind. The decision was made before he even realized it.

_How about I come over?_

_-JW_

_Are you sure? You'll be in more trouble than if I came over._

_-SH_

_Sherlock I need to get out of here for awhile. She hasn't let me out in two days._

_-JW_

_Then come on over. I'll have the maid put the kettle on._

_-SH_

**OOO**

John was used to sneaking over to Sherlock's house, though if he were honest, it wasn't his most favorite thing in the world to do. The Holmes estate was vast and in order to get to Sherlock's window it involved an awful lot of climbing, something that was hard enough to do without snow. In preparation for this John slipped on his snow boots, heavy winter jacket, hat and tucked his gloves into his jacket pocket. He glanced around his bedroom before deciding to write his Mother a quick note for when she checked in on him.

_Gone to Sherlock's. Be back later. Don't worry._

_Love, John_

Satisfied with the note, he left it on his desk, tucked his mobile into his pocket, and carefully climbed out of his window.

It was snowing outside, the only light was the moon shining high in the sky. The stars were out as well, it was a clear cloudless night and that made things easier for John to navigate his way down the streets and over the fences to Sherlock's house. It took him about twenty minutes with his shortcuts to reach and by the time he arrived, he was shivering and covered with snow. The Holmes estate was large, taking up a good portion of land that on a busy day would be bustling with hired help. However, on a calm holiday night, there wasn't a soul out to see John. He rubbed his gloved hands together and stomped his feet on the walkway outside the gates and stared up at the imposing home; he knew from experience that the house wasn't nearly as intimidating as it seemed, the Holmes was a nice couple with warm personalities-not counting Mycroft-and most of the high, arching architect was for show.

Sighing, John jumped a few times to get the blood flowing then grabbed onto the gate and hopped over it, not worried about his footsteps in the least. It was still snowing after all. He trudged through the snow and walked around until he was under Sherlock's bedroom and shook off the snow, then started to climb.

**OOO**

True to Sherlock's word as soon as John climbed through the open window the first thing he encountered was the tea cart filled with hot tea and cakes. The second thing he encountered was Sherlock sprawled haphazardly on his lounge chair, feet kicked up on the arm rest with his head nestled into a pillow.

"Your change of clothing is in the bath." Was all Sherlock said as John shrugged out of his snow covered jacket and toed off his boots.

It was routine for them at this point, John would go into Sherlock's ensuite bath, clean up and change into one of the many change of clothing he left while Sherlock either tended to the fire and tea himself, or had a maid do it. It usually depended on how much trouble they were in. Sherlock's bath was an off creme colour with a stand alone bathtub, shower stall, toilet and stand alone sink. It was stark, as though he didn't use it much, which was true because Sherlock was rarely home to ever use it himself. John often thought that since he and Sherlock became friends, he used the bathroom more than Sherlock did.

Bones chilled, he quickly hopped into the shower, turned on the hot water and stood in the flow until the feeling returned to his toes, then dressed in sweatpants and a shirt. When he left the bathroom feeling refreshed and warm, he saw that Sherlock had lit the fireplace and had moved two high backed chairs close as possible.

"I've made your tea." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and held out the steaming tea cup.

"Thanks." John accepted the cup and took his seat in front of the fire.

"Thanks for coming." Sherlock took his seat and sipped his tea. "I imagine your Mum is going to-"

"Freak?" John offered with a chuckle. "Yeah, but its worth it." He sent his friend a grin. "So, what happened?"

Sherlock sighed and settled further into his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him to warm by the fire. "I had to give my statement. Apparently he didn't die exactly. He's in intensive care."

"That's good news."

"I wasn't strong enough to shove the knife deep enough." Sherlock scowled and stretched out his long, piano like hands in front of him. He was only twelve , but felt like he was older. He hated how young his body was, how he was unable to accomplish tasks Mycroft could do with his eyes closed. With a huff of irritation he turned to face John who had tucked his legs up underneath him and pulled the blanket up onto his lap. He sipped at his tea, relishing in the warmth it brought.

"I think it's a good thing. That means you won't be charged or anything right?" John asked.

At that Sherlock scoffed. "Mother would never let that happen." He downed the rest of his tea and set the cup on the table between them. "Mycroft's been on a rampage since yesterday." He offered with a smirk. "He's been talking to Mother about sending me off to boarding school again."

That, of course, caught John's interest. This wasn't the first time Sherlock mentioned boarding school, and it probably won't be the last. All he really knew was that he hated the idea of Sherlock going off to boarding school. He and Sherlock had been through alot together, and honestly, John really couldn't remember life without his best friend. "And?"

"And nothing. He always does this-do you know how long he's wanted to send me to boarding school? Preferably in France or something." He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry it's not going to happen. Mother won't even hear of it, everytime he brings it up she suddenly remembers she has something important to do."

"Yeah, I can't imagine your Mum sending you off somewhere." John chuckled and downed the remainder of his tea. "She dotes on you too much."

Sherlock hummed in agreement and let a comfortable silence build between them. Even though he knew his Mother wouldn't really send him off, the thought alone was enough to send his blood boiling. He hated the very idea of being shipped off somewhere where he would be forced to listen to some fool who got paid more than they deserved for glorified babysitting. But if he was honest, the thing he hated most about boarding school was the fact that he wouldn't be going with his best friend. What would he do without John? Who would he eat lunch with? Go on adventures with? Who would watch his back and save his arse when he did something stupid?

Slowly, his eyes slid over to John to see him absently placing his now empty cup on the table. "So, you're willing to hide murder for me?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes refocused on the fire before them, but his lips tugged up in a small smile.

John glanced at his best mate and let a small smile ghost across his lips before snuggling further down into the blanket. "Yeah. I guess I am."

**OOO**


	5. Injury

One of the very first things John learned about Sherlock was that Sherlock tended to get injured fairly regularly. Everything from cuts and bruises to sprains and broken limbs, Sherlock had endured them all in his vigilante, consulting detective work. They had known each other for years when John finally realized that if his best friend kept up at this pace, he was bound to get injured beyond repair. Well, actually John had realized this within the first couple of months of meeting Sherlock but he also realized that Sherlock didn’t like being told what to do. 

“Sherlock, really. Was jumping out of the window necessary?” John asked, staring at Sherlock who was hooked up to an I.V, broken leg cushioned on a pile of pillows. 

“Was it necessary for you to follow me out the window?” Sherlock questioned back, one eyebrow raised as he looked at John on the bed beside his own, arm wrapped up tightly in a sling. 

They were in hospital, both had suffered broken limbs and minor cuts and bruises from jumping out of a window while chasing a woman who was stealing pharmaceuticals. The injuries weren't serious, but required an overnight stay much to their parents dismay. Their parents were so used to their sons being in hospital that it became routine for them to the point that they just sighed at the Doctor, shook their heads, muttered a quick, grateful prayer of thanks, then flipped a coin to decide who would pick the boys up in the morning. Much to Mycroft’s irritation, he lost the coin toss. 

John chuckled, then groaned when the movement sent a sharp sensation of pain running through his body. “Of course I had to. Who else is going to cover your arse?”  

“Me, apparently.” Mycroft spoke as he walked into the room, umbrella clicking on the linoleum. Over the years he managed to gain a few pounds around the middle, which was the exact opposite of Sherlock who remained thin as a rail. He was dressed in a smart, brown suit with matching loafers, in his free hand he held up a manilla envelope. While Sherlock spent his days chasing baddies, Mycroft had spent his time gaining footholds in the government and he was well on his way to holding a prestigious position. That is, if he could keep his brother’s nose out of too much trouble. 

“Oh look, John.” Sherlock pushed himself up on the bed with a smothered groan. “Mycroft lost the coin toss this time.” He grinned at his brothers sour expression. “Guess we’ll be healing at my house this time.” 

“Sherlock I haven't a clue why you find this to be amusing.” Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh and walked between the two beds. “Getting injured for the fun of it-”

“Don’t play dumb Mycroft, it doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock cut in with a sneer. “You know if it wasn't for John and me half the criminals in London would still be running about. No thanks to Scotland Yard.” He cut a glance up at his brother. “Or you.” 

Before Mycroft could say anything John jumped in. “Now really isn’t the time for this.” He glanced between them and rolled his eyes. “What’s in the envelope?” 

Mycroft made a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat before relenting and setting his umbrella beside John’s bed. “This,” He opened the manilla envelope and pulled out two identical stacks of binder clipped papers. “Is information about the different colleges and universities you two should be looking into.” He glanced down at them both just in time to see them roll their eyes in sync. “You two are already fourteen, you can’t coast forever.” He handed them both a packet. “There is information about nearly everything available-including scholarships. Both in country and out.” 

“In case it has managed to escape your notice Mycroft, we are in hospital.” Sherlock scowled. 

“Yes. A place you two seem to like frequenting.” Mycroft picked up his umbrella and slowly walked to the door. “I suggest you two take this time to think about your future. After all, what else are you going to do in here.” He glanced around the hospital room with a look of mild disgust. “Mother insists I pick you two up tomorrow. Brother, do not keep me waiting.” And with that said, he left. 

Silence built between the two friends for all of ten seconds before Sherlock decided to break it. “We are in hospital, injured, and my brother thinks we should be thinking of-of-”

“The future.” John supplied, struggling to sit up with one arm. He grabbed the packet of papers by his feet with a groan before settling back against the pillows. “He isn’t wrong you know.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed childishly, actively ignoring the papers lying atop his one good leg. “I don’t even know why you’re bothering to look at it. Obviously I’ll go to the college Mother chooses...and you will too. Right?” 

At Sherlock’s unsure voice John glanced up, his eyebrows raised. “I don’t know...I haven't really thought about it.” 

Sherlock frowned and turned to give John his full attention. “But you’ve been studying for entrance exams. I know you have, I’ve seen the books.” 

John’s face turned red as he fiddled with the papers in his lap. “Well-yes of course I’ve been studying. Everyone has been.” 

“But you don’t know where you’re going?” 

“No...I mean given where I live my options are-”

“Go to wherever I go.” 

John gaped at his best mate. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock just suggested that. 

“It’s not like it really matters anyway.” Sherlock continued. “Besides, we may even choose to go out of country and y-no forget that, that was stupid. Of course we’ll stay in England. I shudder to even think of Mycroft’s happiness.” 

And so began the argument that had all the other patients nearby pressing their ‘help’ button till their fingers bled. 

They argued till the sun went down and the nurses came around to check on them and give them food. They argued through their check ups and while the Doctor gave them pain medication. They even argued while they ate, shooting points back and forth between bites of baby carrots and mashed potatoes. They argued and glared, faces turned red and voices raised-the nurses even had to come in several times and ask them to lower calm themselves before they cause further injury. 

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous!” 

“It isn’t, John! It’s Mother! She loves you-she would-” 

“I do have parents you know!” 

“It makes sense for you to go wherever I go!” 

“What?! No! Sherlock I have my own life to live-and my own parents to think about!” 

“I don’t understand why you’re angry John! It hasn't been an issue before!” 

“Sherlock!” 

“What?!” 

John didn’t respond right away, instead he took several deep breaths and stared out of the window into the foggy London night. His eyes tracked the sky, searching for a glimpse of the moon. "Why are you so insistent that we go to the same college and university?” He eventually asked, his voice low. 

Sherlock stared down at his lap and traced random pictures on the bedsheet. “Because you’re my best mate.” He whispered. “And we won’t be mates anymore if we go to different schools.” 

John wasn't quite sure what to say to that, all he knew was that he had accidentally stumbled into a territory with Sherlock he didn't know how to navigate. He knew how to handle Sherlock when he was arrogant, angry, even sick, but this Sherlock? This unsure, insecure, almost clingy Sherlock? This was uncharted territory, and John didn't know which way to turn.

In the past, John’s dealt with Sherlock’s almost possessive side, the side that comes out when he meets John’s other friends or when John has to turn down a sleepover offer because he's already made plans; he knows how to maneuver around in that situation. Usually it's an hour of not speaking and then a very cautions-well-worded text message. But this wasn’t a possessive, jealous Sherlock. This was an insecure Sherlock who was afraid of losing his best mate.    

John chose his next words carefully. “Sherlock, you will always be my best mate.” He began, glancing over at the sullen teenage boy to make sure he was still listening. “No matter what. Even if we go to different schools that won’t stop us. There will still be sleepovers, cases to solve, and-and”

“And what?” Sherlock asked, turning to face John. “Tea parties? Birthday invitations? John, in no time you’ll make new mates, join some idiotic sport team and forget all about crazy Sherlock.” He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. “Forget it. Forget everything-just-just go to sleep.”  And with that said he rolled over as much as his leg would allow to face the window. 

**OOO**

Hours later, John lay awake in the dead of night. It was quiet and dark, the only light coming in from the window, but something had woken him, but he wasn't quite sure what. Sleepy, he rubbed at his eyes with his good hand and turned on his side, facing Sherlock who had rolled onto his back. Drowsily, John stared at him, wondering where their friendship stood. 

“Sherlock?” He called into the dark, his voice gravelly from sleep. Bleary eyed he watched Sherlock blink in the moonlight. 

“Yes?” He answered crisply. 

“I mean it you know. You are my best mate.” 

At that, Sherlock sighed. “John-”

“Just because we might end up going to different places doesn't mean we have to stop being mates. Yeah, we may not be able to hang out every day, or sleepover every weekend but why does that have to change our friendship?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, he didn't even move his head. 

After a few silent minutes John shifted, fixing the pillow under his broken arm. “You know...we're having a row over something that hasn't even happened yet.” He murmured. 

That caused Sherlock to snort, which only encouraged John. “For all we know we could go to the same college and uni and nothing would change.”   

It took a few moments, but eventually Sherlock turned to look at him. “True.” He mumbled, a smile ghosting over his features. John was the only person he would ever openingly admit to, it was privilege John wore like a badge, knowing that he was the only one Sherlock Holmes would admit defeat or show any faults to; he liked to think that it was an honour well earned. Like a soldier being awarded the Victoria Cross. 

They lapsed into a comfortable silence this time, each lost in their own private thoughts. After a few minutes John decided to break the silence. “Sherlock? What are you planning on being anyway?” 

Without batting an eye Sherlock answered. “I’m going to be a detective. Obviously.” He shifted slightly and glanced to his side. “What about you?” 

“I think I’m going to be a doctor.” 

At that, Sherlock turned on his bed to face John, a curious look on his pale face. “Really?” He scratched at the bandage on his cheek. 

“Yeah.” John shrugged. “I mean...why not right?”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, instead he thought very carefully about what he was going to say. “Do you remember when we first met?” 

The memory brought a smile to John’s face as he replayed the events in his mind. “And you stole my toy gun? How could I forget?” He chuckled as he stared up at the hospital ceiling, his mind a million miles away in his childhood memories. 

“You were playing soldier.” 

John frowned, unsure where Sherlock was going with this. “Yeah...so?” 

He stayed quiet for a moment before continuing, his voice softer. “Did you always want to be a soldier?” 

Carefully John turned his head to look at Sherlock, a curious look on his pale face. “Sherlock, everyone wanted to be a soldier. Every little boy played war games and battles-it’s what kids did.” 

Slowly, Sherlock traced absent patterns on his bedsheets as he avoided John’s gaze. “Even now you still want to be one though. I know I’m right.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“The books in your room.” He sent John an amused smile. “I think you’d make an amazing soldier.” 

“Sherlock, I am allowed to change my mind. I’m not a child anymore.” 

“No, you’re not. You are a impulsive, reckless teenager who is lying injured in a hospital bed for the third time since the year begun.” He  waved his arms around. “But...I think you’d make an even better Doctor.” He sent John an awkward smile before settling back down in the bed and closing his eyes. “That way you and I can go to the same university.” He added in cheekily.

John didn't respond right away, he mulled over Sherlock’s words, replaying them in his mind.  _ I think you’d make an even better Doctor.  _ Would he really? The whole reason he wanted to be a Doctor was because of Sherlock; before that he had his heart set on being a soldier. That was his dream since before he could even walk, he played war games and battles, watched all of the films-he even had a uniform his mother bought him that he use to dress up in. Of course, that all changed when he met Sherlock. The war games were played less and less, his old uniform was packed away in a box somewhere, all his his toy guns were still scattered about his room, but he hardly played with them. His life and perspective had changed. He no longer craved the battlefield or idolized soldiers; now he idolized doctors. The way they knew how to save people and mend them. He was always in awe each and every time he stumbled into hospital with a broken arm or fractured collarbone; how calm and cool the doctors were and how they always knew how to fix him and Sherlock. Absently, he picked at the bandages on his arm, wondering if he too would one day be able to mend someone's arm. 

But, John still loved the idea of being solider. Even now, when he was all alone and Sherlock was at his own house for once, he’d grab one of his toy guns and load them, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. He’d take aim at something and shoot. He never missed. Sherlock was right; he had piles of war books in his bedroom, everything from soldiers recounting their tales from the battlefield, to dry history books. He was a boy obsessed. 

John wasn't a naive boy though, he didn't love the idea of being a soldier because he was blind to the truth. He felt down in his heart that it was something he was meant to do. He knew being a soldier meant war. It mean real battles far away from home where he may very well die in a strange land, dying for a cause he didn’t really understand. But he also knew that war was a necessary part of life, because there will always be someone doing something wrong to innocent people. That was one of the very first things Sherlock taught him. 

But he was torn because he also wanted to be a doctor. Sure the idea was new, but it was still helping people. Wasn't it? Both soldiers and doctors helped people, saved lives. 

And suddenly the light bulb went off in his head. 

At that moment, John Watson, age fourteen lying in hospital bed in the dead of the night realized exactly what he wanted to do with his life. Eagerly, he turned to face his best mate, only to see Sherlock already fast asleep. 

“Why can’t I be both?” John asked the darkness, his voice low as to not disturb Sherlock.  “I’ll be a soldier and a doctor.” He declared, then snuggled down into the sheets with a faint smile on his face. 

**OOO**

Weeks passed, and John and Sherlock healed together as usual. Much to Mycroft's dismay, at the Holmes estate. He was hoping that the Watsons would insist upon the boys staying at their house. Of course that was wishful thinking on his part given that the boys being injured was a regular event.

One evening, the two of them sat in Sherlock’s study going over the papers Mycroft, yet again, insisted they read. The morning sun was warm for once, and melted the snow ruining the idea of them sitting out on the patio. So instead they sat in front of the large window pane, letting the warmth of the sun’s rays soak into their skin. 

“No overseas schools.” Sherlock stated again for the hundredth time since they had begun. 

John rolled his eyes and sipped his tea. He wouldn't dignify the statement by acknowledging it. Instead, he grabbed a red and white pamphlet and scanned it. It was a two year college, simply average, but it was close to home. 

“Of course Mycroft would love it if we chose a university out of country.” Sherlock carried on, his hands busy making a mess of the papers on the table between them. “Preferably one in France...or America.” He shifted in his chair then swore, the movement sending pain down his leg. “Damnit!” 

“Sherlock, you know if you didn’t move around so much it wouldn't hurt.” John practically sang for the umteenth time and scratched at his cheek. 

Opposite him, Sherlock glared. “If they’d give me more painkillers it would hurt less.” 

“Any more and you’d get addicted.” 

“Preposterous!” 

“No. Rational.” 

“I am perfectly capable-I just need more painkillers!” 

“Those are the words of an addict.” 

“Says the one who takes the pills four times a day.” 

“As recommended by my doctor.” John grinned cheekily at Sherlock then sipped his tea. “Have you decided on where you’ll be applying to?” 

Sherlock scowled, but handed over a few papers. “They are all four year-that will at least shut Mycroft up for awhile-and a mixture of living on campus and commuting.” He huffed and leaned back, suppressing a groan of pain. “What about you?”  

John shrugged. He hadn't forgotten the decision he made about becoming an army doctor, but he hadn't had time to speak to his Mother about it either. Sneakily, he’d been looking over the British Army’s website whenever he was able to, learning everything he could before telling anyone. He decided that he would get his A-levels and see if he could get Royal Army Medical Cadetship, that way he would be able to fulfill both his dreams. 

That, of course, left him with only about four years to really spend time with Sherlock. 

Two years of goofing off, then two years of studying for A-levels. 

Before John realized it, Sherlock snatched the messy pile of papers out from under his grasp and began reading them. “Sherlock! HEY!” 

“What?” Sherlock didn’t show much interest, until he got to the bottom. “What’s this?” He muttered, eyes scanning the paper, his frown deepening the more he read. 

John didn’t make a peep. He knew exactly which paper Sherlock was reading. It was John’s own handwriting, a barely legible scribble on the corner of a college application paper. He knew Sherlock would never be able to understand it, John made sure of that when he was writing it. It was simply a reminder to talk to Sherlock about his decision before talking to his Mother. 

“John what is this...marking?” He held up the paper in question. 

“That,” John sighed. “Would be me deciding to become an Army Doctor.” John stated, he decided it would be best to just say it rather than hedge around the bush. If it was one thing Sherlock hated it was people who danced around before actually getting to the point. 

Sherlock stared at his best mate who just told him he was going to be an Army Doctor, essentially telling him that their lives will be going in vastly different directions, and nodded. “Yes. Alright. I suppose that throws a wrench in university for us doesn't it.” 

John expected a lot of things from Sherlock; he expected a tantrum, shouting, yelling hell even a mug thrown his way. He didn’t, however, expect nothing as a reaction. 

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock blinked and glanced up at John before he resumed reading a pamphlet. “Yes?” 

“I’m going to be an Army Doctor, or rather, I want to be an army doctor.” John clarified and watched Sherlock’s face for any reaction. 

But there was none, Sherlock merely nodded. “I heard you the first time John. I suppose I just have to pick a university all by myself then.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “No matter what Mycroft says, I am not going anywhere near Edinburgh.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a review with your thoughts. Whether you liked it, hated it, want to beat me with it.


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